


I'll Ask For The Sea

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Porn, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, the return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-08
Packaged: 2018-03-06 17:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3142796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It only seems fitting he should abase himself at the pedestal of the only man that has meant more than his own life, and his nakedness is an offering, a gift of himself, for John to see everything he is, was, can be. He watched John come to his grave every day for a while, then once a week like clockwork. He would talk, and rage, and curse, spit epithets that made Sherlock cringe, fling demands for more time, for reasons why, plead for another chance to explain everything he meant to say. Sherlock aches to be the man that John believes in, speaks to even when he doesn’t think he can hear, and perhaps he is now that his enemies are vanquished. A rebirth, a chance to exist for more than the work at last. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Ask For The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I found this as I was going through some of my files. I can't find that I ever posted it, but it is, literally, my first try at a Return fic. I ended up writing Out of Sight, Till I Reach You and Cut Adrift instead, but here. Have some very immediate, post-Reichenbach, emotional porn. And porn-porn. As Bran said when I showed him the file, "I'd forgotten what immediately-post Reichenbach was like. Everybody just _feeling_ shit, all over the place." 
> 
> Yeah. That.

The door of 221b is as glossy black as it has always been, the brass doorknocker still gleaming, the bottom third of the wood showing the impatient kicks of delivery boys made to wait too long in the cold. Sherlock smiles, touches the smooth paint, takes a deep breath.

When he finally gathers enough courage to twist the knob, climb seventeen steps (skip the sixth, he’s sure it still squeaks) and silently crack the sitting room door, instead of the immediate surprise he expected ( _John turning from the sink to the sound in the sitting room, a joyful shout, a punch in the nose, a hug, a faint_ ), he finds John sleeping slumped in his chair, one arm curled under this head and his bare feet crossed; closed off, wrapped up and folded in on himself.  
   
Sherlock almost quails at the sight, experiences the full, gut-clenching guilt that he orchestrated the sorrow he can see etched in John’s forehead, and as he quietly crosses the room ( _neat, more neat than it has ever been, John had left, had returned not more than three months ago_ ), he unbuttons his coat and lets it fall to the floor behind him. Jacket next, left draped over the table, and as he walks it seems somehow appropriate that he continue, stripping down and leaving a trail of clothes across the sitting room floor until he can fall, collapse, kneel at John's feet.

It only seems fitting he should abase himself at the pedestal of the only man that has meant more than his own life, and his nakedness is an offering, a gift of himself, for John to see everything he is, was, can be. He watched John come to his grave every day for a while, then once a week like clockwork. He would talk, and rage, and curse, spit epithets that made Sherlock cringe, fling demands for more time, for reasons why, plead for another chance to explain everything he meant to say. Sherlock aches to be the man that John believes in, speaks to even when he doesn’t think he can hear, and perhaps he is now that his enemies are vanquished. A rebirth, a chance to exist for more than the work at last.  
   
The opportunity makes Sherlock giddy, dazed. He watches himself place one hand on John's knee, sees him stir, blink awake. John's eyes go from unfocused fatigue to shocked alertness in an instant, and a choked sound comes from his open mouth.  
   
"Sherl—Oh God. Oh Sherlock, it's—" and he dives forward, wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck and shoulders, hot tears falling onto Sherlock's skin as he gasps. "God, what the hell have you done? Where have you been? And why on Earth are you naked?" he pulls back, cups Sherlock's face in his trembling hands. Stares hard at his face, and Sherlock wonders how long it will take for that surprised joy to turn to anger, as he knows it must, sometime; a full, rearing anger, disappointment, betrayal, all of those things he knows are his due.  
   
Sherlock shuffles forward, places his hands on John's thighs where they bracket his hips. "Everywhere. Nowhere. But I—I’m here, now. I want you to see … there’s nothing left to hide, now. I know it's not enough, but please—" Sherlock drops his chin to his naked chest and waits, stripped bare and completely vulnerable. Please, let him understand that this is my chance to start again. Please, let him still need me. Please, I've needed him more than I can say. Sherlock waits, feels shock and joy and affection in John's thumbs on his cheeks, his shoulders, his neck.  
   
The weight of John's hand on his head feels like a measure of forgiveness for all of his past sins.  
   
 Sherlock sucks in a relieved breath, slumps forward and buries his head in John's lap, his arms around John's waist and still kneeling, always so until forever. John pets his hair, lingering over the short, silky curls that run riot over the top of his head, and Sherlock, surrounded by the smell, the warmth, the comfort of his best and only friend, his other half, wonders how it would have been, these last months, if he'd had this to center and ground him during his months of travail. Regret surges in his chest, but he knows he doesn’t have the right to it.

“Jesus, Sherlock. I never thought I’d see you again. You were _dead_.”

“I know. I know. It wasn’t the best way but it was the only way, the only way he’d left for me, and he didn’t even realize he had.” Sherlock can feel the rough denim of John’s jeans under his fingertips, pauses, waits again for the anger he’s _sure_ is there, will be there, because how else can he atone for what he’s done, without John’s fury to counter?

 They sit in silence, John stroking Sherlock’s hair, murmuring “Christ, it’s good to see you, you utter _twat_ ” at intervals, Sherlock simply breathing in the essence of home, letting it soak into his bones until John pats his hand, sighs. "It's late,” he says, “and I’m—exhausted, honestly. And you look cold." John stands, pulls Sherlock up from the floor, leads him to his own bedroom which is astonishingly exactly as he left it. John leans over, pulls down the duvet. "Mrs. Hudson changed the bed after..." he trails off, and Sherlock stares at his back. There, there’s finally something of the reaction Sherlock expected, and he watches grief and uncertainty curl the line of John’s spine forward.

"Why?" John finally says, and the quiet sorrow in his voice is shattering, even as it’s expected. Sherlock lays a hesitant hand on his shoulder, whispers into his hair the words he’s longed to say this entire year, thought of for a hundred sleepless nights, a hundred drear and solitary days.  
   
"I did it to save your life. Yours, and Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. I will tell you everything, every detail you ever want to know, I will live somewhere else, I will never contact you again if that's what you want, but I beg you, let me stay just one night."  
   
But John surprises him yet again, proving that he’s at least a measure of a man much greater than Sherlock is, can only aspire to be. "This is your home, Sherlock," John says softly. "And I'd never make you leave it. Not since you've found your way back."  
   
"Found my way back to it, yes. And to you, John. Please, tell me you want me here again."  
   
John turns, wraps his arms around Sherlock's body, squeezes him tight. "If I ever see you walk out that door again, Sherlock Holmes, I'll bloody well kill you myself."  
   
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sherlock climbs under the blanket, curls on his side. John stands over him, vacillating between the bed and the door.

“Stay,” Sherlock says, and John eyes him uncertainly.

“I … well, all right,” he says, and sits on the bed, pulls of his shoes. Lies down on top of the duvet fully clothed and turns in toward Sherlock. The skin around his eyes looks powdery soft now, sagging and stained with the blue of a year of restless nights.

Sherlock reaches out, gently places a fingertip under John’s eye, strokes down his cheekbone. They’ve never been so physical before, but the rawness of his absence and the joy of their reunion has stripped everything away, every hesitation, every self-delusion, every ounce of denial. “I will never be able to repair the damage I’ve done, but I will try.”

“Later,” John says. “Let me be happy for at least twenty-four hours before I get justifiably furious.”

“All right.” Sherlock pulls his hand back, but can’t stop looking, cataloging. John is more lovely to look at, more wondrous to experience since his absence, and as Sherlock stares at the soft pliancy of John’s mouth, the silence becomes oppressive, the quiet dim room almost unbearably tense.

If John’s hand felt like forgiveness, John's lips against his feel like a blessing.  
   
Sherlock breaks away from the kiss ( _much, too much, how can it be like this when he's come ready to flay himself open, lay himself on the altar of John's righteous anger?)_ only to lean in again, brush his cheek against John’s in a slow, warm caress.

John draws a shuddering breath, grips Sherlock’s shoulder, arches his neck back slightly so Sherlock takes the hint and kisses his throat, tastes the skin of his Adam’s apple, the rough edge of his jaw under evening stubble.

“Two shocks in one night?” John gasps. “Back from the dead and a fantastic kisser? I don’t think my brain can cope.”

Sherlock pulls back, sees hesitancy in John’s expression. “I’ve gone too far.”

“No, no, I…” John huffs a laugh. “It’s just—a lot to process, you know?”

“Then don’t, not yet.” Sherlock kisses him again, intent on giving John everything he needs to believe, and when John gasps, Sherlock grins, nips his skin. John is twitching, shifting under his hands, and Sherlock wants more, wants everything, all at once. He tugs at John’s shirt until John pulls it off, revealing starkly defined collarbones and ribs, the lividity of his scar obvious against his pale skin.

Sherlock goes cold, the fresh evidence of John’s grief unbearable. His John, John who loves roasts and beer and biscuits and chips, should never be this thin, this gaunt. Sherlock growls as he pulls John toward him, “Too thin,” is all he can say, and John holds him tightly, caresses his hair.

“You just said we won’t process yet. So let’s not. Stop feeling guilty, and I’ll not be angry, just for tonight. Then we’ll have breakfast, a shower, and set to. I’d wear a mouth guard, if you have one.”

“I do know Judo,” Sherlock says, a little testy, and John just laughs, splays a hand over Sherlock’s back to balance himself. The heat and closeness is intense enough that the laughter dies in John’s throat, and he looks at Sherlock with a desire so intense Sherlock shivers, the bloom of arousal settling low in his belly, shattering the soft focus of the night.

Their mouths meet again, passionate and deep and undeniably real and Sherlock gets lost in the feel of it, finally, finally letting his mind relax, succumb to the desire he’d always held so ruthlessly in check. He wants this, wants to be subsumed by John, consumed, lit from within to burn to ash, detective _redivivus_.

John pulls off his jeans and kicks down the duvet, sliding in beside Sherlock and resting his hand on Sherlock’s waist. The first touch of their bodies is a shock, the heat and press of skin to skin a comfort, and John is obviously well versed in what he’s about when he hooks one of Sherlock’s legs over his hip and pulls them together.

Christ, so good, so hot, so close, and Sherlock is mindless, rocking his hips against John’s, racing toward orgasm until John pushes away slightly with a hand on Sherlock’s waist.

“Want...God, Sherlock, I can’t believe I’m saying this, I want…” He trails off, nuzzles Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his mouth dry. “Everything. Anything.”

John pushes Sherlock onto his back, presses a kiss to his sternum before dipping his head down to take the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, barely a caress with lips and tongue and Sherlock cries out, clutches his hands on John’s shoulders. John grunts his pleasure, takes Sherlock down as far as he can, sucking lightly and teasing with the flat of his tongue.

“Oh God, yes, like that,” Sherlock pants, his hips thrusting minutely. The cool air across his chest and the searing heat of John’s mouth is giving him gooseflesh, and when John pulls off, breathes lightly on the head of Sherlock’s cock all he can do is arch helplessly, overwhelmed.

“I’ll be right back,” John says, and ducks into the loo. _Lubricant,_ Sherlock’s lust-clouded mind supplies. _Condoms. Yes._

The tube of lube hits the bed with a small thump, and as John tears open a condom Sherlock reaches for it, plucks it from between his fingers.

“Let me,” he says, and John drops his hands to his sides, sucks in a breath when Sherlock smoothes the condom over his cock, feeling the ridges and strength of John’s erection, which is twitching at his inquisitive touch.

“You’ll have me off before I can…God, Sherlock, stop.” John dips his hips back, lifts Sherlock’s knee over his arm and takes Sherlock’s cock in his hand in one move, stroking him gently. Sherlock drops his head back on the pillow. John’s hands are amazing, his deft touch exquisite, and the moment John presses a lube slick finger against his entrance Sherlock sees stars.

“How much?” John murmurs, as he twists his finger deeper.

“Not much. Oh, God, not long. Please.”

John shushes him, works him until he’s satisfied, but his ministrations leave Sherlock a panting, sweaty mess of jangled nerves and arcing electric desire. Sherlock tilts his hips, lifts his other leg around John’s hip, tries to cajole and tease and tempt John into taking him right then, enough with the delay, it’s been a year _, it’s been_ _years, please._

John finally seems to get the message that Sherlock is ready and pushes into him with a gentle, insistent pressure that lights his nerves, sends sparks behind his eyes, makes the disparate thoughts, and ideas, and impossible to capture feelings he’s had over the last two and a half years coalesce into a simple, sharp point.

Sherlock shudders, trembles every time John hits his prostate, and when John’s fingers wrap around his cock he cries out, shivers to completion, gasping and blinking away tears.

“Beautiful, fuck you’re beautiful,” John says, thrusts harder, faster. “I missed you, God Sherlock I missed you, every fucking day, every time I’d come home, your violin in your chair and it _hurt_. Fuck.” Reconciliation, forgiveness in the motion of John’s hips as he rocks into Sherlock’s body; the huff of their mingled breath, their gasps and groans a benediction, a blessing, a hope for the future.

John falls forward, kisses Sherlock through his own orgasm, his hands wrapped under Sherlock’s shoulders and holding him close.

After a moment, John lifts his head, his blue eyes only inches from Sherlock’s. “With me. Always. With me, Sherlock. Like this. Not like this. But with me. Please.”

Sherlock nods, his throat tight, John still inside him, over him. He feels it already, the shift in his perception of their old life to the new, a startling transition in mind and soul. And John, his salvation, his damnation, his touchstone, his maker. His heart on a pedestal to worship, to sin against, to demand forgiveness from, to gain forgiveness from.

To be one with.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
